Arrie and the Wolf 4 Read online

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  Draft of Arrie and the Wolf: Part 4

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  Though I picked the most modest dress in her closet, I glance down the front as I take the tray from her, trying not to be too obvious about it. The buttons are all done up perfectly by Sweetie, but he missed the top two at my throat, visible in the mirror. The collar flaps overlap to cover the tattletale knob of my adam’s apple. I should be okay.

  Yet, her open, gasping mouth isn’t unlike a koi mouthing the surface of the water, like she’s not getting enough oxygen. She sees, she knows, my gut instinct screams.

  I didn’t have enough prep time. Playing woman requires more than a dress. It requires make up to soften my features, practiced mannerisms in the mirror before I go out, a mic check. I needed more time to make sure I’m perfect, and if I want to live, I have to be perfect.

  When I grasp the silver handles of the breakfast tray, she sucks in a long breath, her bony chest expanding, and a darkness replaces the shock in her eyes. I barely manage to grasp the silver metal, my fingers adjacent to hers and so close to touching, but definitely not. Her upper lip curls back like she’s smelled something gross, and I’m sure that breath she holds will erupt into an angry shout, I’m sure I’ll see the white flash of her palm followed by the stinging blow of her hitting me.

  Her frail shoulders shake…she’s furious.

  The breakfast tray in our shared grasp begins to slide, a bowl of oatmeal skating to the edge.

  “Thank you for the food.” I step back with the tray, but she clings, forgetting to let go. One by one, the fingers unlatch, like they’ve forgotten how, like they’re peeled off.

  Another step back. I have the food, a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of eggs and toast all cuddled together on one edge. It’s taking all of my strength and concentration not to dump it. Sweetie doesn’t assist, he barely touches me. A check in the mirror finds him in the corner, body angled away like he doesn’t want to get hit, hunched and helpless.

  He’s reacting to her emotions, feeling what she hasn’t said yet.

  She didn’t expect me to know her game and catch on. She wanted to play with me like a cat, bat me around, smother me when I scream, then let me up to start all over.

  I’ve trumped her. Her shock is apparent. Nobody trumps her.

  The dresser nearby offers a flat surface for the heavy tray. To turn now though would be a mistake. The pocked surface of the oatmeal wobbles, the mucky grain sloshing over the side of the bowl, and I clutch the silver handles tighter. Can’t rattle the dishes. No weakness allowed.

  I force an utterance through my lips. “Mother?”

  The word takes awhile to reach her. I can envision it wafting to her bottom lip, pulled down enough to give me a glimpse of the long teeth behind. Around the side of her face, touching under her nose, which she turns up and aside to the offensive name I’ve given her. Then to the corner of her eye, scrunching tight, her brows lowering in anger, and finally into her ear, where the label sings and her hand comes up to hold the side of her face, claws clutching as she processes.

  “You clever little…bitch…”

  I can hold the tray no longer, the dishes precariously close to tipping over the side.

  Eat now, eat fast, my stomach orders.

  I’ve failed and I’m scared shitless, but there’s food here and my stomach is the only organ undistracted from the lovely smell. Tea, too. It isn’t only fear that has me hollow and lurching inside.

  The tray makes it to the dresser’s top without spilling, and I surprise myself by snatching the toast and cramming as much as I can into my mouth. I hadn’t intended to eat like a starving hyena, shoving the food into my face with poor aim, but my stomach overrides my will, and once I’ve had a bite I can’t stop with just one. Hot eggs and toast follow, the cutlery left untouched. I jam fingers in with the sustenance, scarfing down, getting crumbs and flecks all over.

  I don’t even taste it until it’s already gone. The thought of poison hits me, but it’s too late now, so I keep going.

  I’m licking the plate when she speaks.

  “Do not stain that dress.”

  Her hands clasped in front of her waist are tight like fists, but she isn’t screeching and she hasn’t moved to strike the food from my messy hands.

  “Yes, mother,” I say, but I can’t hear myself speak, whispering mere air.

  Butter slicks my chin. My arms can’t mop up, they’re encased in the white sleeves of the precious dress, buttons running from my shoulder to the wrist to make an eyelet pattern from the cloth and my skin. I’m casting about for a towel or a rag or anything, licking my fingers, when an inky snake rejoins us from the bathroom, delivering a hand towel. Sweetie steps close, takes the towel with Rex’s hand. The cotton against my mouth is coarse but he swipes gently like I’m a baby after a messy feeding.

  “Thanks.”

  A hiss: “Not me, her.”

  Ah, her orders. I made him promise to tell me when it was her touching me.

  His ears press flatly back, and he doesn’t look at me. He needs me to beat this weakness, to survive this game.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mother.”

  I pretend I’m laying into her, being a smartass before—no, despite the beating. Bravery I know nothing of, but stubborn I can do. This refusal to quit, it comes from somewhere behind my conscious thoughts, like it’s bred into my DNA. This, I don’t need courage for. “I’m a little hungry, I guess,” I say.

  The haughty upward set of her chin, well, that’s a predator uncertain whether the prey bites back, but I can pretend she’s offended, pretend I’m being sarcastic, and the words come easily, though too high-pitched.

  “It was delicious, thank you.”

  I even press on, urging my spine not to fold like a lawn chair, coaxing my voice to follow through. “I’m glad we aren’t fighting anymore.” Deep breath, grab the dresser edge for support. “Aren’t you? Let’s be friends again.”

  Her silence is unbearable, but it ends shortly with a whispered, speculative, “Yes.” Her smile is forced. This faking might kill me. “My sweet, smart girl…You’ve always been so clever, haven’t you?”

  Her high heels stab the plush carpet. This is worse than the click of her steps on tile. There, I had sonar to tell me where she was. She’d seemed like a spindly spider, each step broadcast on a web for me to detect. Now there’s no sound to mark her movement. She isn’t wearing the keys on her hip, nor a hum on her lips.

  The food isn’t so appetizing anymore, but I’m not fainting so I can guess it isn’t tainted. I’m still hungry, so I cram it in. With silverware this time, but about the same manners, hardly chewing what makes it into my mouth.

  “How’s he doing?” She nods in the direction of Sweetie, who hovers at my side but doesn’t speak.

  Missing the male pronoun, I assume she’s asking him about me.

  Motherly kindness gone, she snaps, “Tessa, respond.”

  I hack on eggs, taking a swig of tea to wash it down and clear the way for speech as fast as possible. “He’s, uh, he’s…he’s fine.”

  “Mm. That’s good. He hasn’t been nippy has he?”

  The arch of her brow, that little smirk on her lips….she’s taunting me, and she knows it. I take another hearty gulp of the tea, the wet to aid my rasp.

  “Not at all,” I tell her, and I wish I could follow it with a cheeky grin, but I don’t dare.

  She smiles so sweetly. She knows she’s getting to me.

  “That’s good,” she purrs. “You’re so precious to me. Why, if anything ever happened…”

  She tuts.

  I plunk the spoon into the oatmeal, heave it up. That’s where it stops. It looks too much like skin.
With her so close, my stomach can’t take it. I’m done. The last of the tea goes down.

  “Yes, Mother, I know.”

  It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a mumble to keep up this pretense, something to say. I don’t know how to be Edith’s daughter, and I’ve certainly no idea what to say to get her to leave.

  Snappy, she asks, “What do you know?”

  She’s got me cornered. Sweetie reaches for me, steps as though to come between us—but then, like he’s bumped into an invisible fence, he flinches and stays out of the way.

  Her legs cross and her foot bobs, the ankle bare and blue veins exposed.

  She’s waiting.

  “I know…” Nothing, I’m about to say, but I’m determined to do this. “Mother…” Need more time, I can’t do this. “Let’s not fight.”

  “We’re not fighting. We’re having a discussion. Please, girl, tell me, what do you know?”

  I’m back to girl. My secret is like a hidden ace, my final joke incase I screw up.

  “Ah. Nothing?” She clucks. “That’s what I thought.”

  Her vulture talons clutch the dress draped over her knee. She ought not do that lest those red nails poke through and ruin what looks like a designer dress. She likes antiques, but she doesn’t shop at the goodwill.

  This silly act isn’t going to work. It’s too much.

  Sweetie steps in, blocks half of her from me.

  “She knows you would never hurt your daughter,” he says, and adds a second too late, “Mistress.”

  He falls like a fly she’s swatted out of midair.

  “You never speak higher than me.” She digs into the fabric, bunching it in her claws, but otherwise maintains the prim pose.

  “Yes, mistress,” Sweetie says without pause.

  Something’s cooking. I’ve gotten used to the smell of ash around him, but it’s stronger, a melted, rubbery smell. The tendrils licking the carpet must be hot enough to set it on fire. But no, it’s fine, and that means he’s the one burning up.

  “I am yours,” he says. “And so is your daughter.”

  He’s like the specimens in jars on her shelves. Contained. Organic things bottled and preserved as tools.

  My trembling isn’t for fear anymore. I could yank the top dresser drawer out, swing it around and bash her head. If the blow is enough to stun her, she won’t have time to give orders. Even if Sweetie interferes, I might get the necklace in the breath it takes him to react.

  Her foot continues to bob in midair, keeping rhythm with her thoughts.

  I’ve got a chance.

  Her eyes close like a cat’s, a signal of far away concentration.

  “If you think you’re going to ruin me by luring me into distraction, let me correct you.”

  I flinch like I’ve been caught. Did she see me reaching, my fingers reacting to my desire?

  She speaks unperturbed, “One slip from you, girl, I will find another. You’ve got spirit in you. More than I bargained for.” She looks me up and down. “This will work beautifully, if you’re a good girl.”

  My tongue pushes against the back of my teeth. I’m going to incite her.

  Sweetie speaks before I can.

  “She will be good, I promise.” From his position on the floor, he looks up into her eyes. “I will make sure she’s perfect. I will watch her. I will make sure she behaves.”

  A tendril comes near her foot, and she uncrosses her legs, angling her knees opposite of him.

  “You’re well spoken. I didn’t expect that.”

  “And loyal,” he promises. “There’s no going back for me. This is my life now, and I accept that. I will serve you.”

  I’m not watching this. I’m dreaming. I fainted, knocked my head on the dresser. Now I’m in a coma, staring at the ceiling, tongue lolled out of my mouth.

  Must be, ‘cause there’s no way in hell she’s cupping his face, drawing him up from his kneeling position like a benevolent aged queen.

  “My smart boy….”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  I scream, but the room is silent except for her praise.

  “So brave and resilient. Surely you must resent me…”

  “I do.But…this is all I have now.”

  “Ah, you’re the logical one, aren’t you? Yes, the quiet ones are always thinking.”

  I yank the top drawer free and fling it at her, but she’s undisturbed, untouched. My arms haven’t moved.

  “Both of you are smarter than I expected,” Edith says. “I don’t like smart ones, they’re too dangerous. I’ve had close calls before. Lord knows, I should end her before she causes anymore trouble, but with your help, we can keep this brilliant little princess alive, can’t we?”

  Princess? She can’t be talking about me.

  I try to move, but don’t. I’m a decoration in the room, unfeeling, unblinking, immobile. So I must be in a coma, because I’m not seeing him nod fervently.

  “Yes. I will watch her for you. I promise.”

  “Good boy.”

  I sense lice crawling behind my ears while his eyes half close and he leans into the scratch. He doesn’t cringe while those nails scrape through his hair.

  I was right all along, he’s hers, he’s betrayed me. But what about the promises of earlier? It wasn’t all her, it couldn’t have been, I would have known. I would have sensed if she were flapping his mouth and speaking through him. Wouldn’t I have?

  Her red nails trail down his cheeks, and he winks at me, a subtle twitch from the side she can’t see.

  It’s a ruse.

  Oh. Of course it is, but he doesn’t have to play it so damn well, does he?

  A tiredness draws over Edith’s face, the lines becoming more pronounced as her posture sags.

  “She’s hard to look at. When I walked in…I saw her perfectly,” she whispers, her hand coming up to mask her grief, and I’m relieved she’s finally stopped touching him, thinking I should spit on her again. She’s twisted us all up, Sweetie on the floor by her, me in bloomers for christsakes. We’re tops twirling and hoping not to fall over.

  And him! I glare. It’s not totally a ruse, and I know it. He could never act so well.

  What am I, the losing horse? Are you covering your losses?

  These words, of course, are thoughts. I seem to be stuck. The wallpaper is absorbing me into a two dimensional place.

  He can feel me though. His eyes close to shut me out, but I’m the bark that won’t shut up, and he feels me, his body always angling my way.

  “Keep her safe for now. Keep her away from me. If she opens her big mouth, I can’t…I couldn’t…” Edith shakes her head and in the time her eyes are closed, Sweetie finally looks at me fully. He’s ashamed, his gaze big like a scolded puppy.

  I’m not forgotten. I’m just…

  Save me from myself.

  Heaven forbid I open my mouth now, I’ll throw a tantrum like I’m four, stomping and everything. I let the flood of rage go with a sigh, accepting this as inevitable, and really, who can blame him? He’s only got us two. If I fail, he’ll have to survive with her.

  I don’t remember being so practical in all my life.

  As I accept Sweetie’s play of the cards he’s stuck with, as my anger gives way to reasoning, I’m animated again.

  I brush my hair from my face, step away from the wallpaper and back into the world.

  “Mother, there’s no breakfast for him. When will he eat?” I ask and not with the frightened squeak of some prepubescent sophomore, but with a deeper, soothing tone. This is new.

  Aurrey is bouncy and fun with a craving for pastries and a talent for wit. She’s a quick, smart, fun girl with a temper hiding. This voice, on the other hand, is gentle and lilting. Calculating.

  As Edith responds similarly, I’m horrified to discover that I’ve learned it from her.

  “It’s not as easy as it used to be. Nowadays the commons are branded like cattle and accounted for.” To Sweetie, who’s ears have perked at t
he topic: “Be a few days, if you can hold out.”

  “I can,” Sweetie says.

  And me, well, I seem to have abandoned the quick witted Aurrey forever, because I’m turning her odd response over and over in my mind, and then it strikes me…

  Why did I ask this question in particular? From where did it arise while I was preoccupied with Sweetie’s betrayal? (I’ll call it that even if I acknowledge that it’s necessary, smart even.)

  Never turn your back on the enemy, goes the saying, but I have to spin around and check the mirror, have to grip the dresser ledge tightly, to steel myself for who might be in there.

  It’s just me. In a ridiculous dress of puffy frills and lace. I look like a bedraggled bride.

  “Are you okay?” Sweetie asks as I lean close, my nose a sliver from the glass. The rim of color around my eyes is exactly as it should be. The spokes in my irises are perfect.

  The alchemy shouldn’t work that fast. But then, the book says it can go either way, a day or a month, depending on the skill of the alchemist. Surely, if I was changing, my eyes would show it.

  The only person who could confirm that is my enemy.

  “I’m good,” I mumble. “Dizzy is all.”

  I’m glad to see Sweetie leaning my direction anxiously. He hasn’t totally stabbed me in the back. He was making a play in my favor, swaying her mood while I choked.

  It’ll be okay, I tell myself, but a rebuttal arises from a memory of the text of Alchemy itself. It isn’t good enough to say it. You have to believe it.

  I am Edith’s daughter. Softer, like I’ve appended an asterisk and a disclaimer to my own thought: But I’m not Tessa.

  I may not be able to stop Edith’s magic, but I can warp it. Nothing I haven’t done before.

  I meet her eyes as I turn from the dresser.

  “Mother…what does he eat?” Because though the question left my lips unconsciously, though I’m only half keeping up in my preoccupied stew, I ought to know. She brought me breakfast, but nothing for him. He hasn’t eaten since—before.

  The pull of his bottom lip, is that shame?

  “You know the answer, girl.” She shuts her eyes, inhales and steels herself. “Tessa, my girl,” she adds, the affectionate croon blatantly forced. Her hand returns to mask her lower face, her eyes blink, holding back tears. Her gnarled claws lower to clutch at her throat. In an affected voice, she confesses, “Forgive me. It’s just been a very long time.”